


Where angels fear to tread

by redluna



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: 18th Century, Alternate Universe - Historical, M/M, Some historical liberates do apply
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-22
Updated: 2013-07-22
Packaged: 2017-12-20 23:35:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/893217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redluna/pseuds/redluna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The one where Eames is a marquis and Arthur is a servant in the decadent world of 18th century France.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Where angels fear to tread

**Author's Note:**

> The Marie Antoinette AU that everyone may or may not have been waiting for. The idea got stuck in my head after seeing Tom Hardy's cameo in the 2006 movie and the rest just went from there. (The title comes from Fools Rush In, originally done by Frank Sinatra.)

Eames wasn't sure how he was supposed to feel as he watched the queen flirt--there was really no other word for it--with Count Axel Fersen. It wasn't like he necessarily cared, not in the way that a scandalized citizen would, at least. France had never embraced him well enough to provoke any sort of national pride. And he knew quite well that he had only been invited to the intimate little soirée at the Petit Trianon--the queen's pleasurable getaway--because his father had kicked up a fuss.

The man had always been particularly prickly about the rights of his only child. His father had fallen madly in love with an Englishwoman, only to wind up with a flighty, disloyal wife who refused to leave her own country and a child whose mixed descent would always set him apart from the rest of French society. That Eames wasn't the slightest bit bothered by this--and the spitting image of his mother--didn't help matters.

Still when the Duchesse de Polignac slid up besides him, Eames found it difficult to keep his peace. "Our queen seems rather fond of looking at Count Fersen."

"Well he's easy on the eyes." Yolande let out one of her trademark giggles in response to the incredulous look Eames shot her. "What? Is he not to your tastes, my dear marquis?"

Eames didn't like the way her wide violet eyes sparkled with mischief or how they started to slide over to where the servants had begun to pass out drinks. Time to direct the conversation back to its original focus. "Well don't you think she favors him too clearly?"

"Just because it is not you," Yolande said. There was a bit of bite in her words now and Eames couldn't help but snort at it.

"Hardly." He would never be like the others, all vying for a place in queen's inner circle. It was far too tedious and not at all worth it, despite how delightfully sunny the lady in question was. "Do you not think it would be unbecoming to our queen? I mean he has quite a reputation."

Eames couldn't hide the smirk that tugged on his lips when he turned back to Yolande to find her mouth hanging ever so slightly open. If there was anyone who could challenge him as a connoisseur of gossip then it would be the duchesse herself. So she no doubt knew just what scandalous affairs--of which there were many--that he was referring to and had probably made sure to pass them along to a queen who would be more amused than repulsed. It wouldn't surprise him if Yolande had actually been the one to encourage the "friendship".

Although, if one considered the relationship of the royal couple, perhaps this was not so great a surprise. There was a strong friendship there to be sure, but nothing upon which great romances were made. And the queen was clearly longing for the rush of just that in her life.

"He amuses her and she likes to be amused," Yolande said. "There's nothing unregal in that, monsieur."

Eames was tempted to point out that there was something quite unregal about the queen smiling her way into the bed of a foreign count, but a servant choose that moment to arrive with a platter bearing fresh flutes of champagne.

"Oh, merci." Yolande scooped up one of her own before passing another over to Eames. He took it from her, yet her hand still lingered over his, her eyes actually clear for once. "Look to your own romance before you judge those of others," she whispered.

She departed in a swish of silk before Eames could say a word in response. Instead he found his eyes drifting over to where another server, one of the few who went without the ridiculous powdered wig so that his slicked back dark hair was on full display, and downed the contents of his glass in one go.

\---

Arthur knew that, as a mere servant, he should respect the aristocracy, but, to be perfectly honest, he found them to be ridiculous. Especially in terms of the lot that turned the queen's château into their personal playground. He could hear them dashing around the upper levels now with almost every great "noble" lady shrieking like a schoolgirl.

It was something that Arthur had seen happen before. It was some odd sort of hide and seek where the men chased after the women. And once the ladies were caught they would be dragged back into the nearest bedroom or sometimes just the closest room.

The end of the game was one of the worst open secrets of the château.

It wouldn't matter to Arthur except that he had to try to navigate his way through all the chaos so he could get to one of the back rooms. Ariadne was there with Yusuf, who managed to snag a bottle of wine for them to share while they watched--or, more accurately, mocked--the ludicrous activities of the nobles.

He managed to get about halfway there, barely ducking out of the way of a lord who seemed determined to growl while chasing after his chosen woman, when he saw something that made him freeze.

One of the ladies had been caught, yet it wasn't just any lady--it was the Queen of France. And the man who was tugging her back into her bedrom while she leaned against him, giggling, was Count Fersen.

"Quite scandalous, isn't it?"

Arthur wouldn't be surprised if he actually did manage to jump a foot in the air in response to the voice at his ear. It was less of a surprise, however, to see who was there when he whirled around.

"Marquis Eames," he remarked dryly.

Eames shook his head, tutting. "Still so formal, pet," he said. "And here I thought we were past all of that."

Arthur raised his eyebrows. "Would you prefer Raumont then?" he asked.

He knew exactly what affect such a question would have and, sure enough, Eames' nose wrinkled. "I said not to be formal," he said, "not for you to drag in my father's title."

"It will be your title one day too," Arthur said.

"A blessedly far off day, you mean." Eames reached down to loop his arm around Arthur's waist. "And even then I'll still ask you to just call me Eames."

Arthur knew he should struggle against Eames' hold, or at least make a show of doing so, but instead he relaxed against the other man with pathetic ease. "People are watching," he muttered.

"Do you mean dear Ariadne and Yusuf?" Eames' chuckle was low in Arthur's ear, making him have to fight the urge to shudder. "I'm afraid they succumbed to wine and other pleasures when you failed to arrive on time."

Arthur groaned, rolling his eyes towards the ceiling. "Of course they did." Ariadne wasn't the type of person to let any stolen moments go to waste. She was rather like Eames in that.

He cast a glance across the rest of the floor, grateful that the dashing around seemed to have stopped. Yet that could only mean one thing, of course. "I'm not doing it here." A low, breathy sound echoed from behind a nearby door as if to prove his point.

"I would hope not," Eames said. He winked at Arthur. "Good thing my room's on the third floor, eh?"

Arthur tried to hold his smile back, but it was a wasted effort. Besides, their game was almost at its completion anyway. "A very good thing." He slipped free from Eames' hold, smile turning sly. "Now are you going to waste time on more words or take me there?"

Eames' eyes sparked with amusement and something a little darker. "Always so impatient, pet." He was hardly one to talk, though, from the way he all but dragged Arthur upstairs by the hand.

\---

It didn't escape Eames' notice that his own rooms had been set away from those of all the other guests. He supposed it was meant to be a sign that he wasn't as highly favored, but he found it to be more of an unexpected blessing. There was no need for Arthur to fuss about being quiet now, although it didn't take him long to find something else to fuss over once Eames began to work at his clothes.

"Honestly, Eames, people are going to notice if my uniform is a wreck come morning. What are you even... Do you have any idea how much this probably cost?"

Fortunately, Eames knew just how to distract him, leaning down to crash their lips together. Arthur might have been tempted to pull away to continue to scold, but he was never one to turn down a challenge. So he gave as good as he got, reaching up to fist his hands in Eames' shirt and pressing up until their teeth clashed together.

Eames was chuckling as they broke apart. "The wrinkles are never coming out of this now, love," he said.

Arthur swiped his tongue across his lips, grinning. "Like you care about fashion," he tossed back.

"I'll have you know I have quite the fondness for a well dressed man." Off went Arthur's jacket, his waistcoat quick to follow. "Especially for one who can look as ravishing in such a getup as yourself. But even you have to agree that it has entirely too many layers."

"Oh you don't even get to talk to me about that." Arthur slipped out of his pants himself, tugging his undershirt off over his head. His shoes had already been toed off earlier and he didn't see any point in dealing with his stockings. "You nobles have the craziest fashions I've ever seen. It's like you lot are determined to wrap yourselves up in fabric."

"And jewels," Eames quipped in helpfully. "Don't forget the jewels, darling."

Arthur rolled his eyes, batting Eames' hands away from the clothes he was trying to remove. "Let me," he said. "You'll wind up ripping it or something." He could tell from the tense coil of muscle he could feel as he removed the clothes, however, that Eames' patience was already stretched thin. It was a miracle he even managed to get down to the near sheer undershirt before Eames lunged at him again.

Arthur pounded against the man's shoulder with a weak fist, laughter coming out a bit breathless around the edges as Eames kissed and sucked his way down his neck. "The oil, you idiot, we need the oil!" He could feel Eames' lips curving into a grin against his neck, but all it took was one last thump for him to push up and reach underneath his pillow to snatch a small vial out from under it.

For a moment, Arthur was scandalized. "You... What if someone had found that?" The rooms of an aristocrat were hardly private, after all, and it would be all too easy for one of the maids to come across the vial while she was doing up the bed.

Eames shook his head with a sort of exasperated fondness. "Then I would say it was to was there to ensure my poor courtier hands retained their lovely softness. That was it's original intention after all before devious minds such as ours got ahold of another use for it." He poured the oil out onto his fingers. "Now do try to relax, my dove. You're going to need to for this next bit."

Arthur had gone through this enough to know he was right, but there was no way he couldn't snort over what he'd been called. "Dove? Really? Are you ever going to stop being--" He inhaled sharply as Eames pushed an unexpected finger inside of him.

"What?" There was a smirk growing on Eames' lips. "Charming? Devilishly handsome?"

"I'm going to kill you when this is over," Arthur gritted out.

"Ah, yes." Eames' smirk only widened as he crooked his finger in just the right way, making Arthur gasp again. "I expect there will be lots of la petite morts for us both."

There was no way Arthur couldn't laugh at that, a true one that caused the skin around his eyes to wrinkle. "You are ridiculous," he said.

"Of course." There was something warm in Eames' voice and his eyes were entirely too fond for something that should have been as casual as this. "But I'm yours."

And, well, there was no way he could argue with that. So he let his body relax at last, letting Eames go to work properly. It was almost to easy to let the mind give way to the body, not caring what he might look like as he pushed back helplessly against each new thrust of Eames' fingers. He managed to bite back a whine once the fingers were finally removed, if only because he knew there was something better coming.

The times that they were able to do this were far enough in between that it still burned a little when Eames pressed it. It wasn't uncomfortable enough for Arthur to try to get Eames to stop, however. In a way, he actually enjoyed it since it meant that he would still be able to feel this in the tug of his muscles tomorrow as he went about his duties. He would never admit it out loud, but there was no way of knowing when he would be able to see Eames again, let alone be with him like this, so he'd cling to whatever reminders he could get.

Eames tried to keep his thrusts slow at first, not wanting things to be over too quickly, but it was all too easy to get lost in the near addictive warmth of Arthur's body, the way the other man clamped around him like a vice.

Arthur wasn't about to complain when the thrusts began to get sharper anyway. He just wound his legs up around Eames' waist, creating a tight little barricade as if to keep him there. Or, at least, that's what it seemed like until Arthur raised his arms up as well, using the added leverage to flip Eames over onto his back.

Eames didn't even try to protest it, flopping back onto the bed with a surprised burst of laughter. "You always were a wily one, love," he said, reaching up to fit his hands around Arthur's narrow hips.

"Not at all." Arthur reached down to curl his fingers into the fabric of Eames' undershirt, his nails catching on some of the exposed skin. "I just know what I want." And what he wanted, as it turned out, was to let Eames' cock slam into him from a much better angle. Eames tried to take control of the pace only once, but Arthur caught his hands before he could get far, shoving them up above his head with a single hand.

"Darling," Eames groaned, "you're going to be the death of me."

It was Arthur's turn to smirk down at Eames. "Didn't you know, monsieur? That was the plan all along." He dipped his head down to lick his way into Eames' mouth. "Don't worry, I'll make sure you enjoy yourself on the way out."

In the end, things couldn't last much longer. It took only a few more minutes for Arthur to turn his head to bite down into the flesh of Eames' neck to smother his cry as he came in thick streams across Eames' chest. Eames was not far behind, taking advantage of Arthur's now loosened grip to work one of his hands free so that he could clutch at Arthur's hair as he issued a stream of curses that would have made the matrons at court swoon.

"I don't think I even know half of those," Arthur mumbled sleepily as he came back down.

"Ah, well one does learn a thing or two in the bawdy halls of London." Eames curled a strand of Arthur's hair absently around his finger. "Are you going to fall asleep on me, love?"

Arthur's yawn was as much an answer as anything else. "If only for a little while." His nose wrinkled. "You ruined my pomade."

"And I'm quite sure you ripped my shirt," Eames said. "So I'd say we're even."

Arthur hummed against Eames' throat before rolling over, too rung out to argue. He even let Eames gather him up into his arm without any word of protest, choosing to burrow his face into the man's broad chest instead. "Wake me up before it gets too late."

Eames dropped a kiss to the top of Arthur's head, a soft smile already on his lips. "Of course, darling."

\---

One of the wonderful things about visiting the Petit Trianon, even if it was on an enforced invitation, was the easy hours. At Versailles, or virtually any place the royal couple occupied, everything ran on the strictest schedule imaginable, including early risings for the whole court, as if no one could wait another second to dance attendance upon the king and queen. At her château, however, the queen showed herself to have a fondness of late mornings that could almost match Eames' own. Hence why the now small party was at yet another outdoor table, lounging around for a brunch that mainly consisted of sweets.

The queen, he noticed, hardly ever took her eyes off Count Fersen, the two of them gazing into each other's eyes as though they held some wonderful new secret. Fortunately everyone else was too distracted by the Duchesse de Polignac's latest scandalous story to notice.

"And then he took it out. Just like that! And I said, 'What do you think you're going to do with that, monsieur?'"

"I could have told him exactly what to do with it," the Princesse de Lamballe cut in, breaking one of her pastries calmly in two before popping it into her mouth.

"And what is that, darling?" Yolande asked.

"Put it back in his trousers where it belonged," Lamballe replied.

The answer was hardly an unexpected one, coming from the Princesse, but Yolande scoffed at it. "Lamballe, ladies and gentlemen, is what we call a prude." She reached across the table to tap Eames on the hand. "Quite unlike our dear marquis here!"

Eames, for once, was caught off-guard. "What?" he asked. He knew it couldn't be anything good, however, from the wicked gleam in the Duchesse's eyes as she smiled at him.

"Don't think that love bite on your neck has gone unnoticed." Yolande leaned forward with the sly, eager look she tended to wear when she thought she was on the verge of discovering some juicy secret. "Come on now, what member of the help didn't you manage to seduce into your quarters? Or did you manage to snatch up one of our noble ladies?"

Eames sucked a stray bit of raspberry jam off his thumb. "Don't be jealous, Yolande," he said. "Just because you had to spend the night in the arms of the viscount and his rather... Well." He wiggled his pinky as he snatched up a grape, at which Yolande gaped then erupted into peals of giggles.

Eames made full use of the resulting chaos to wink over at Arthur and the way the man blushed all the way to the roots of his hair, looking so lovely it almost hurt, was worth any sort of scandal.


End file.
